


In the Light

by feyjewels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Morning After, Mutual Pining, My First Smut, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock's First Time, Smut, have I added enough tags yet, irene adler mention - Freeform, like honest to god idiots, she's a lesbian harold, tea solves everything right?, they're idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-06 11:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17938988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyjewels/pseuds/feyjewels
Summary: It meant nothing, said the little voice of self-doubt John had never bothered to mention to his therapist.You were both drunk, it was just sex, he doesn’t feel things that way.No, John countered himself,It didn’t feel like “just sex,” it felt…Well, he knew howhehad felt. They hadn’t even spoken about it, it had just… happened. He’d felt as if he couldn’t stop, even for a moment, because then it might never happen. He’d felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest and shed onto the floor, like his jacket and trousers. He’d felt as if a dam inside himself had finally broken, and he was now washed up on the shore.------------------Alternate title: John And Sherlock Have Drunk Sex And Then Promptly Freak The Fuck Out, What Happens Next Will Surprise You





	In the Light

John woke up to an empty bed.

This, in itself, wasn’t remarkable. John woke up to an empty bed most mornings these days. But this particular morning, he had half expected to wake up and turn over, sleepy and content, to see…

A faint nose came from the kitchen, pots and pans being moved from the stovetop to the sink. This wasn’t remarkable either. John woke up to seemingly innocent noises that came from the kitchen most mornings. 

He rubbed his eyes, turning to look at the unoccupied pillow next to him. There was still a little indentation where another’s head had been less than an hour ago, or maybe several hours ago. John couldn’t be sure, deducing wasn’t his job. He reached out to feel the bedsheet- no, it was cold. That must mean… what did that mean?

Sitting up, John reminded himself again that he wasn’t the genius detective, though at the moment he sorely wished he was. Maybe then he could get inside the mind of his flatmate turned friend turned… what?

Another noise from the kitchen, this time the sink being turned on and then off. The source: John’s own personal mystery, doing unspeakable things to organ meat no doubt. 

Rubbing his eyes again, John tried to ignore the memories that were now flying through his mind like moths to a light. The feeling of soft, well-kept hair in between his fingers. The image of a tall silhouette shedding clothes against the city lights. The sounds, dear god, the sounds of both of them gasping and panting, the sheets rustling, the wet strokes of rough hands on tender skin. 

John shook his head. No, he was not going to encourage his morning wood. He sat for a few minutes, listening to the various nefarious kitchen noises, trying to decide what to do. Trying to deduce why Sherlock had left his bed so soon after entering it. 

_It meant nothing_ , said the little voice of self-doubt John had never bothered to mention to his therapist. _You were both drunk, it was just sex, he doesn’t feel things that way._  
_No_ , John countered himself, _It didn’t feel like “just sex,” it felt…_

Well, he knew how _he_ had felt. They hadn’t even spoken about it, it had just… happened. He’d felt as if he couldn’t stop, even for a moment, because then it might never happen. He’d felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest and shed onto the floor, like his jacket and trousers. He’d felt as if a dam inside himself had finally broken, and he was now washed up on the shore. 

Maybe Sherlock hadn’t seen it, hadn’t deduced it, he had been just as plastered as John. If he had known what John was thinking, would he have stayed?

_This is Sherlock we’re talking about_ , the voice said. _He can tell a man’s occupation by the sole of his shoe, plastered or not. Of course he knows. That’s why he left._

John pushed the thought away. But now that he was sober and squinting in the morning light, everything he knew argued for the side of self-doubt.

Maybe John was expecting too much of him. Maybe Sherlock was just impatient, not one for lie-ins. Sherlock knew how long John was prone to sleep, which was not much really, but compared to Sherlock, everyone slept like the dead. Anyway, given the time, he’d have to know that John was awake by now.

At this realization, John was suddenly gripped with the fear that Sherlock somehow knew he was sitting up in bed, agonizing about the previous night’s events. Even that remote possibility was a mortifying enough thought to make John stand up, put on some pjs, and exit his room.

Maybe it was his imagination, but he could swear the shuffling in the kitchen came to a stop as John opened the door and began to walk down the stairs. Regardless, he beelined for the toilet, a welcome diversion from his worst insecurities who were no doubt waiting to swallow him up in the next room. Besides, he desperately needed to take a piss.

Brushing his teeth, he found himself searching for something in his reflection that might prove Sherlock could want him. Instead, he found bags under his eyes, greying hair, and a softness around the middle. He spat into the sink. He wasn’t ugly, but he certainly was no model. Not tall and posh like Sherlock. Or dangerously beautiful like a certain Woman he typically tried to avoid thinking about. 

One sleepless night after the incidents with Irene Adler, he’d found the Woman’s words echoing through his ears.

_"Are you jealous?"_

He’d brushed it off then, caught off guard. But staring blankly up at his ceiling, weeks after the fact, he let himself fully admit it. For the first time in his and Sherlock’s partnership, he’d truly felt jealous, like he’d been replaced. Looking at the two veritable geniuses mentally sparring with their perfect hair and perfect cheekbones had reminded John of what he wasn’t. Irene Adler was Sherlock’s equal, and John, well… wasn’t. 

Oh god, now he realized he had spent too long in the toilet, Sherlock was bound to notice. With a deep breath, John left the sanctuary of the bathroom for the emotional warzone of the kitchen. 

Two things he noticed right away: something suspicious boiling on the stove, and Sherlock, seated at the table, bent over his microscope. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge John’s presence in the least, just turned the little knobs with his ridiculously long fingers. 

Suddenly John was struck by the memory of intertwining those fingers with his own, holding them above the man’s head as John rutted down onto Sherlock, Sherlock moaning into his mouth with each thrust-

_No, no, stop that_ , John looked away quickly. “Morning,” he said as casually as he could manage. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

Sherlock grunted in response, continuing to examine his slide. Charming as always. John walked to the cupboard, pulling out an almost-empty box of tea. _That’ll solve things_ , he thought ruefully to himself. Still, no use being impolite.

“Tea?” John tentatively turned his head in the direction of his flatmate, who nodded. John made himself look away. Sherlock, as usual, was a study in neutrality. John couldn’t tell what the man was thinking, be it love, hate, or indifference. Well, two could (attempt) to play that game. John turned on the left burner, doing his best to ignore both the other occupant of the stove and the other occupant of the flat. 

John’s anxiety began to turn to bitterness as he filled the kettle and placed it on the burner. Why was Sherlock here, in their common living space, if he had wanted so badly to get away from John this morning? Why couldn’t he be a decent bloke who could let him down gently, look him in the eyes and stammer platitudes such as “It’s not anything you did,” or “I just don’t want you to get hurt.” He tried to picture Sherlock saying those things and almost smiled. God knows John had said shit like that enough times, though he suspected it never really made any of the women feel better. Still, the golden rule, right?

The bitterness faded into resignation as John opened the door of the fridge to grab some bread and butter. Maybe it was better this way, keeping the status quo. John could suffer in silence. He’d already been doing that anyway, he was a professional at this point. Sherlock could keep his dignity or perceived logical purity, and acquaintances could keep mistaking them for something they were not. The daily routine.

The toaster popped, and John realized he had never even put the bread in. He let out an exasperated breath, then something caught his eye. In the reflection of the application’s steel, John could see the outline of Sherlock. Though the image was a little fuzzy, John could definitely tell, Sherlock was not looking at his microscope. His head was turned, and he was looking in John’s direction. No, not just in his direction, he was looking _at_ John. 

John turned, but Sherlock had subtly resumed his position, refocused on other things not visible to the naked eye. This time, John didn’t just take a quick glance. He let himself observe, deduce, gather evidence. He smirked as the kettle suddenly whistled and the detective started, jumping a little before resuming his indifferent stare.

An idea began to tentatively form in his mind; maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one suffering in silence.

He poured the steaming water into two mugs. He put the mugs on the table. He pulled out the chair right next to Sherlock, the creak the loudest thing he’d ever heard in his life, and sat down, facing the other man. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to him, then back to his “work.” 

“Hey,” John said. No response. _Stubborn git_. “Look at me, will you?”

“I’m quite busy at the moment,” Sherlock spoke at long last, his baritone voice smooth as honey. 

“No you’re not,” John responded.

“What makes you think that?” Sherlock continued to turn the knobs. 

John knew now why he had no evidence from the night before concerning his flatmate’s heart. In the dark, drunk off of wine and whiskey, they had barely spoken. One simple touch had lit the flame, and it was merely seconds before they had stumbled onto John’s bed, kissing, wanting. John hadn’t even thought to turn on the lights, what for? 

Now, clear as day, John could see everything he hadn’t the night before. 

“There’s nothing on your slide.”

A pause. Sherlock finally looked up at John, then down again. “Ah,” he admitted.

“I…” John swallowed, “About last night-”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“I didn’t say that. We…” Sherlock sucked in a breath, “if you don’t want to, we don’t have to.”

“Why would I bring it up if I didn’t want to?”

Sherlock pouted then, probably about to accuse John of performing a social nicety, a meaningless platitude. Meanwhile, John wanted nothing more than to kiss those impossibly soft lips again, hear those keen moans. He licked his own lips without meaning to and Sherlock’s eyes darted there, then up to his eyes. This time, he held John’s stare. John felt the familiar, somehow comforting, sensation of being analyzed. _Let him_ , he thought.

_In for a penny…_

“You know, when I woke up this morning and you weren’t there, I was afraid.” John said.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed, “Of what?”

“I was afraid…”

_In for a pound._

“That you regretted. What we did.”

The man was quiet then. He examined John’s face carefully, calculating. “No,” Sherlock said eventually, softly, his eyes not leaving John’s “of course not.”

John smiled thinly, looking down, then back up. “Then why did you leave?”

Sherlock swallowed. “I… was afraid. That _you_ regretted.”

John smiled for real then.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock began, then closed his mouth, eyes in his lap.

John balked for a moment. He couldn’t remember the last time Sherlock had apologized to him. Apologies were about as frequent as royal weddings. Although lately, there’d been quite a few of those he supposed. “…For what?”

“For… being afraid,” Sherlock looked up through his lashes.

John then was overcome with an urge to touch. He let the urge rule him for once, reaching to cup Sherlock’s right cheek. “You think I’m not? I’m bloody terrified right now.” The other man’s eyes fluttered closed as John made contact, head tilting slightly to lean into him. This was all too much for John’s incredibly human heart. 

“Let’s try again, yeah?” John’s thumb stroked Sherlock’s cheek, “Come back upstairs.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, briefly glancing to his right, “But the tea-”

“Fuck the tea,” John said.

He could swear Sherlock’s pupils dilated slightly. The man raised an eyebrow, “My room is closer.”

John chuckled, leaned in and kissed the ridiculous man. Sherlock seemed slightly startled, somehow, but reacted quickly, making a small noise of pleasure that John ate up eagerly. He couldn’t resist sliding his hand up into Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock’s tongue slid into his mouth, and suddenly all of John’s anxieties vanished, his voice of self-doubt running for the hills. He was a fool to think he could have lived without this and been content, now that he remembered what it was like. What _he_ was like.

They were now much closer, Sherlock’s long leg in between John’s, his hand landing on John’s right knee, sliding up his thigh. John pulled ever so lightly on Sherlock’s hair, and the man gasped in response, pulling away from John’s lips just enough to speak.

“Or we could just do it here,” he rumbled, his voice somehow lower than normal. 

“Nope,” said John, popping his p, “We’re doing this properly.”

“Boring,” Sherlock huffed, earning another chuckle from John who pulled him to his feet. 

“But first, I have to be sure you’re not going to run away this time,” John tugged on Sherlock’s shirt, leading him slowly away from the kitchen.

“I did not ‘run away,’” Sherlock let himself be led, “I merely exited a potentially hazardous situation to retreat to neutral ground.”

“In the army, that’s what we call ‘running away,’” John smirked, “Though you’d make a good soldier with that attitude.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock’s eyes raked through John. He swallowed, making a note to himself to take advantage of that possible military kink another day. 

Before he knew it, they were through Sherlock’s doorway, and John felt himself pause. Again, the memory of them falling into John’s bed, drunk, desperate, flooded his brain. Of course John didn’t regret it, how could he possibly? But he wished now that they had taken their time a little. They had been, both of them, anxious. Afraid. John hadn’t gotten the chance to really see Sherlock, to appreciate this beautiful man who, somehow, wanted him back.

That man was looking at him strangely now, and John realized he had been staring a little. Examining every inch of Sherlock, taking it in. His soft frown, his porcelain skin, his piercing eyes. Beautiful. 

“What?” Sherlock interrupted his staring, eyebrows furrowing again.

John pulled Sherlock down gently to kiss him deeply, slowly, arms snaking around his neck. Letting himself show Sherlock his appreciation, in whatever way he could.

He pulled away. Sherlock’s eyes, closed during the kiss, opened slowly. John smiled. “Just getting a good look at you,” he said finally, “in the light. I… didn’t get a chance to yesterday.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, perhaps to break the tension with a humorous comment to decrease the intensity. Or maybe to assure John he wasn’t much worth looking at. Or to call John an illogical fool. Whatever the words might have been, Sherlock refrained. Instead, he closed his eyes and let his forehead rest on John’s, who mirrored him. Together, they let out a breath they hadn’t realized they had been holding. 

Then, Sherlock was demanding John’s mouth, kissing him with an intensity he had never felt before, John’s system felt as if it would short circuit any second. But John held on, fingers seeking out the ties to Sherlock’s robe, pushing the damned thing off his broad shoulders. 

Sherlock, the horny thing, went straight for John’s trousers, hooking his thumbs around the waistband and pulling them halfway down John’s arse before they reached the edge of the bed and John half-fell onto the mattress, Sherlock following. He straddled John’s thighs, trapping him with his arms, kissing him relentlessly. Finally, he broke away. As John caught his breath, Sherlock returned to his previous task, making quick work of John’s trousers and pants, coming to a kneel on the floor in between his legs.

Now half naked, John sat up on his elbows to watch Sherlock because he’d be damned if he missed a second of this. Sherlock’s eyes roved over John’s body, unabashed in his appreciation. John had never felt so desired in his entire life. For that moment, he forgot about his eyebags and grey hair and soft belly. 

Other people faked those kinds of things, they said pretty little words to make their partner feel better, they flattered to get what they wanted. Sherlock was not a flatterer, he didn’t enjoy it. His few and infrequent attempts at insincere compliments had become transparent to John very quickly. Sherlock had stopped faking those kinds of things around him a long time ago.

John knew Sherlock wasn’t faking this. 

Large hands ran up and down John’s thighs, and Sherlock lowered his head as John unconsciously held his breath. A wet, warm tongue was now licking a stripe up John’s length, from root to tip, and he felt his breath come quicker. Sherlock sucked at the tip of his cock experimentally, and John shuddered. Then, in true Sherlock style, he did something a little unexpected; he buried his nose in John’s wiry hair at the base of his cock and breathed in deeply, hands contracting around John’s thighs. 

He wasn’t even getting blown, yet seeing this man smelling him in his most vulnerable spot, almost reverently, eyes closed, John felt himself get completely hard. He put his hand in Sherlock’s hair, running his fingers through it as Sherlock sucked on a ball.

“Fuck,” John said involuntarily. Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s thighs in response and then he, meeting John’s eyes, slowly took in a good length of John’s cock into his mouth.

And, _oh god_ , this was bliss. Everything about this was infinitely better than last night. Just the fact that he could see Sherlock clearly, eyes dark, lips stretched, cheeks flushed, was enough to fuel John’s fantasies for the rest of his life. It was superior to every shameful scenario his mind had ever concocted. No matter how much he had tried not to think about sex with Sherlock, the thoughts would come, and he’d have to bat them away like flies. 

But better those than the tender, pining thoughts he had whenever the lamplight illuminated the laugh lines around Sherlock’s eyes. Or when Sherlock took a second to make sure John was alright after a physical altercation. Or when Sherlock knew by the tenor of John’s footsteps up the stairs when the clinic had been particularly tough, so he would start the kettle boiling for tea before John even got through the front door. Moments that John saw what he considered to be the “real” Sherlock, not the man in the papers or at the Yard, made it particularly tough to ignore his own feelings. Even worse, these moments tried to trick him into believing that Sherlock could maybe reciprocate. 

No, he’d have taken a hundred uncomfortable erotic dreams over one where he believed Sherlock might actually love him back. 

But now, with his hand in his friend’s hair and the morning light warm upon his back, John wasn’t trying to push his inner romantic away. It was hard enough trying not to get pushed over the edge with Sherlock sucking and licking his cock into oblivion. 

“Oh, Christ,” John cursed again as Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head. Sherlock moaned around his cock, and _oh god_ , it was almost too much.

“Wait, Sherlock,” John moved away slightly, urging Sherlock’s head up as he let John’s penis fall out of his mouth. 

“What?” he asked hoarsely, a defensive look in his eyes, “Did I-”

“No, it’s good, it’s too good,” John reassured him quickly, guiding Sherlock up to kiss him. Christ, he could taste himself in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock looked confused. 

He rubbed his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip. “I was getting too close. Your mouth is lovely, but that’s not how I want to come.” Sherlock was blushing even more feverishly now. “I want you to feel good too. I want…” John faltered. 

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock searched his eyes.

“…You.”

Sherlock inhaled softly through his nose. “Yes.”

John nodded, “Okay. Then get up here,” he patted the bed, remembering then to remove his shirt. 

Sherlock rose to his feet, taking his t-shirt off as well, and finally, his pajama bottoms. John’s mouth practically watered at the sight of Sherlock’s own penis fully erect as well. He moved back to make room as Sherlock awkwardly climbed onto the bed, not quite sure what to do with all of his long limbs. 

He settled, right knee in between John’s legs, noticeably not touching anything too sensitive, and John reached up to give him an almost chaste kiss.

“Do you have-” John began to ask, but Sherlock interrupted him, already knowing what John was going to say, and leaned over to search through his drawers. A few seconds later, he triumphantly returned with a little bottle of lube. But after handing it to John, he looked a little lost, unsure of what he should be doing.

“Do I-” he made a gesture towards the pillows and John nodded.

“Yeah, maybe just face the other way, stomach down,” John said. Sherlock nodded, moving to comply, but his eyes looked a little panicky. “Hey,” John touched Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock resumed a sitting position. “You ok?” He stroked his back lightly.

“Yes. Maybe. I’m…” he took a breath, “to be perfectly honest, John, I haven’t done,” vague hand gesture, “this before.”

John wasn’t sure what he was referring to specifically, but he tried to keep his expression neutral. “We don’t have to-”

“No, I want to.” Sherlock insisted, “I just want you to know. I’m not, well. I’m not an expert.”

John grinned. “Sherlock Holmes admitting he isn’t an expert on something? I’ll have to alert the papers.”

Sherlock pouted, and John laughed, moving his hand to Sherlock’s cheek. “Thank you for telling me. If you really want us to do this, I want you to enjoy it. We can take it slow. Honestly, it’s been a while for me as well,” John admitted. 

Now that he thought about it, had John ever said that out loud before, admitted that he had shagged a bloke once? He couldn’t recall a single person he’d had the guts to admit it to, not even Harry. Okay, maybe some internal issues to be worked out there. 

Sherlock was looking at John queerly now, probably deducing his train of thought. Maybe they’d have that conversation later.

“Anyway,” John swallowed, “you’re going to have to be honest with me, alright?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, reaching up to cover John’s hand with his own. “Alright.” After a moment, he moved to a kneeling position, arms bracing him. 

And _oh_ , what a sight he was then, creamy thighs spread, arse exposed. John’s horny brain wanted nothing more than to push into that plush arse and thrust. He knew of course that wouldn’t be good for anyone though, and instead ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, kissing his spine. 

“You’re bloody gorgeous,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s back. He could feel Sherlock breathing quickly underneath his mouth. “Relax a little, alright? Breathe.”

Sherlock complied, attempting to slow his breaths as John popped the lid of the lube, putting some on his fingers. He kissed down Sherlock’s back, down to the small of it, then just above his hole. He replaced his lips with a slick finger, stroking up and down the rim, feeling how tight it was. Sherlock began to squirm a little, and John steadied him with a hand on his right hip.

“So beautiful,” John breathed, pushing his finger slowly inside the hole. Just a little, moving it in and out. The man squirmed more under his hand. “Talk to me, Sherlock,” John continued to massage the opening, “Is this okay?”

“Y-yes, I think,” Sherlock said haltingly, “You can… you can go a little… _ah_ -” he arched his back a little as John felt his finger reach a certain spot.

“On the right track?” John smirked. 

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, but he could hear the eyeroll in his voice. “More, John. _More_ ,” he pushed back on John’s finger.

“Fuck,” John didn’t need to be told twice. He added another finger, stretching the rim and, every once in a while, caressing Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock was now thrusting back in a slow rhythm, John watched his fingers slide in and out with more and more ease. 

After the third finger, Sherlock was getting impatient. He turned a little to look back at John, his eyes impossibly dark. “So? Are you going to fuck me, or not?”

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock,” John gave his cock one stroke, he couldn’t help it. “Are you-”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure-”

“Honestly, John,” he could see the eye roll now, “I’m ready.”

“Alright,” John removed his fingers, Sherlock inhaled sharply. He shifted, arse up, and John rose on his knees a little to get into position. 

“Wait,” John said, his hand on Sherlock’s hip. “I’d rather not do it like this.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock turned again.

“I want to look at you. Turn around, on your back.”

Sherlock obeyed. John climbed over him, and they were face to face. Sherlock was blushing again. The soft morning light caressed Sherlock’s features, making him look young and innocent, yet older and wiser beyond his years, a beautiful product of his painful past. John kissed his forehead, his left eye, his right. Sherlock’s arms slowly came to embrace John by the waist, and then they were kissing. It was slow, deliberate, it was everything. 

Then John accidentally met Sherlock’s hips with his own. Their lengths brushed against each other, and the men gasped. 

“John,” Sherlock said, fingers digging into John’s back, “I need-”

“Yes,” John breathed, and after one more kiss, moved to sit between Sherlock’s legs. He grabbed the lube again and slicked himself up, eyes falling closed involuntarily. When he opened them, he saw Sherlock staring at him, breathing heavily. John took a deep breath himself, aligned his cock with Sherlock’s hole, and slowly began to push inside.

Sherlock’s head tilted back, breathing in and out loudly. John’s breath hissed out through his teeth as he pushed farther in.

“ _God_ ,” he said, pulling out slightly, getting used to the feeling. It was so much, yet not enough.

Sherlock looked like he was maybe in the same boat, he was gripping the sheets under him, knees up.

“Here,” John grabbed a pillow and lifted Sherlock’s hips, sliding it under. “That might, ah, might help.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, and then, John was completely seated inside Sherlock. “John,” he moaned lengthily. “ _More_ , John.”

That was all John wanted to hear.

He began thrusting in, out, with incredible restraint, two hands on Sherlock’s hips. He remembered Sherlock’s leaking cock, spat into his hand, and began to stroke. Sherlock’s hips bucked as he cried out, and John began to move a little faster. With every thrust, Sherlock’s hair became more and more unkept, surrounding his head like a dark halo, fringe beginning to stick to his sweaty forehead. 

John was unable to look away. “Fuck, Sherlock, you feel so good,” he growled. “You’re so gorgeous, so… fuck,” Sherlock’s hips were beginning to move on their own, fucking John’s hand. The man was moaning now, making all manner of obscene noises, and John knew this wasn’t going to last for very long. 

He bent down, he had to be kissing this man, _now_. Bracing himself on his forearms, he captured Sherlock’s lips, the man moaned into his mouth as he kissed back. 

Now they were both thrusting, Sherlock’s cock against John’s stomach, John’s deeper into Sherlock, over and over. John felt that heat began to pool in his groin,  
growing almost unmanageable. 

John needed more. Needed to show Sherlock, to tell him. Needed him to understand. 

Reluctantly, he released Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open at the loss of contact, and John found himself lost in them.

“John,” Sherlock reached to touch his face.

“I love you,” John said suddenly. With every thrust, he stared into his friend’s eyes, unable to look away. “I love you,” he repeated, “So much, Sherlock.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whined, fingers tangling in John’s hair. His eyes squeezed shut, and John felt his body begin to clench.

“Oh god, come for me,” John breathed, moving faster, “Come for me, love,” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, I-” Sherlock hissed, and he spasmed, coming with a deep groan, John could feel Sherlock’s cum on his stomach and chest. 

“Shit,” John cursed, fucking Sherlock with abandon now, feeling his cock ready to explode. Another thrust and, “ _Fuck_ ,” John was coming inside Sherlock, unable to control himself any longer. 

Collapsing on the other man, he buried his head in Sherlock’s collarbone as the aftershocks came and went. Hands were caressing his back, running through his hair. 

When he felt like he could breath again, he slowly eased himself out of Sherlock’s arse, knowing the sheets were going to be filthy after this, not giving a single damn.

Tilting his head, he looked up at Sherlock, who was… smiling. Not that Sherlock never smiled, but John had never seen the man so quietly content. He pulled John close, and John sighed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock as well. They lay like that, tangled up in each other, for a minute or two. John could feel Sherlock’s every breath, could hear his heartbeat slow down to pump at its natural rhythm. This, he decided, was truly bliss.

“Now you’ll think twice about leaving me alone in bed, yeah? Wouldn’t want to miss exciting moments like this,” John joked, breaking the silence. Sherlock chuckled, and John could feel it all through his chest. 

“Yes, it truly is thrilling,” his fingers were absently stroking John’s hair.

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Oh, completely serious.”

“Nope, still can’t tell.” 

Sherlock moved to tilt John’s face up to meet his. His eyes glinted mischievously, but without malice. Without really meaning to, their lips met, and they kissed once, long and deep. Still, they didn’t move apart. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock breathed into John’s mouth. 

John raised an eyebrow with a smirk, “For?”

“The sex, obviously,” Sherlock said, and John chucked.

“And…” Sherlock swallowed, “I also… when you…” he faltered. 

John waited, intertwining his left hand with Sherlock’s right. 

“What you said,” Sherlock murmured, “I also feel. For you.” 

John smiled. “You do?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, stroking John’s thumb, “I always thought it was quite obvious.”

“You and I might have different definitions of ‘obvious,’” John chuckled.

“I just assumed,” Sherlock began, but then closed his mouth.

“What?”

“I don’t understand why you would… want me. When you could have,” Sherlock gestured vaguely with their joined hands, “Anyone else.”

“Well, on that we agree,” Sherlock frowned but John continued, “That I don’t understand why you would want me either, you git.” 

Sherlock huffed indignantly as John laughed, coaxing Sherlock’s pout into a small smile with a quick kiss.

“It’s always been you though,” John said quietly then, looking down at their hands clasped together. “Even whenever I tried to find someone else, all I could think about,” he couldn’t stop talking now that he started, “was how they weren’t you. I don't expect you to have felt the same-”

“Of course I did,” Sherlock looked at John like he was talking nonsense, a well-worn look. “Who else would I, _oh_ ,” he interrupted John just as he opened his mouth to reply, “no, no, don’t be daft.” 

“Wait, are we even talking about-”

“Of course.”

“You never let me-”

“John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “she told you herself. She’s a lesbian. Clearly.”

“It wasn’t clear to me!” John exclaimed.

“Even if she wasn’t, I could never have reciprocated,” Sherlock went on, now in explanation mode, “For one thing, I’m not attracted to women, I’ve made this perfectly obvious multiple times.”

“Again, I’m not sure we have the same definition of that word,” John said.

“And even if I hadn’t been completely indifferent to her, physically, how could I have felt romantically towards her while I was in completely in love with you?”

John grinned widely as Sherlock closed his mouth, realizing what he’d said aloud.

“Alright,” John let it slide, “So I might be the idiot. But if you had no idea how I felt about you until today, and you’re the genius, how was I supposed to deduce how you felt? You know I’m even worse than you are at hiding things.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment, softly frowning in thought. “Perhaps we’re both idiots.” 

John kissed Sherlock then, laughing, wrapping his arms around the idiot. After a reluctant second, Sherlock smiled back, resting his head on John’s.

They then laid without speaking, listening to the sounds of the city outside, the quiet inhales and exhales, the beats of each other’s hearts. Sherlock’s slow breathing began to lull John to sleep. His eyes started to close involuntarily, and though he didn’t want to miss a moment of this, he felt himself dozing off.

“John?” Sherlock said after what felt like ages. 

“What?” John murmured. 

“…I left the spleen on the stove.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just didn't feel like writing about condoms today, but obviously, wear a damn condom babes~
> 
> Not Britpicked or beta-d, all mistakes are mine, uwu


End file.
